


Fever

by Validity_For_Dissonance



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 03:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15476868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Validity_For_Dissonance/pseuds/Validity_For_Dissonance
Summary: She plagues his mind, distresses his heart, and damns his soul. And he wants her; wants her so much that knows he must ruin it.





	Fever

_Hot._  
_Motionless at the window._  
_Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons, swelling_  
_and then dropping_  
_to the floor—_  
_Parched._  
_Face flushed. Room flushed, red shadows licking up the walls,_  
_the ceiling,_  
_you briared in it like a rose on a spit, rubiate,_  
_carnadine—_  
_Breathing._

_— Fever ~ Diana Levin_

* * *

 

A colored swirl of smoke evolves and dies in the air; red and stifling, it causes the scholar to turn his face from the fumes instinctively, a hand reaching for a glass mask to hold it against his mouth and nose. He looks back at his creation, eager and expectant, only to be met with the crumbled remains of an epiphany. His fingers feel the powder, press it between thumb and index, and then release.

“Yet another failed experiment…” he mutters bitterly.

The bells sound their wakening call from the nearby tower. Dawn, he notes. But piqued by his failure and refusing to concede defeat, he scorns the rising sun and turns to his library, picking up a book and flipping through the pages. The print is fine and his head is pounding. He places thin-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his nose and commences to read, searching and scouring for a detail that he had missed.

Time is elusive and distractions are many. There resound from the streets noises that signal booming activity; a disruption that, though vexing, is endurable. But among the discord comes a siren call, its ring soft and small; not at all like the grand bells of Notre Dame, yet nonetheless more claiming and ensnaring.

Like a man bewitched, he raises his head from his book and moves to look from his window. And surely—his breath caught and heart clenched—it is the gypsy girl standing there, beaming and glowing, her tambourine calling for the attention of potential spectators and capturing them with ease.

“What witchcraft is this…” he says, though his trembling fingers clutch onto the spine of the disregarded book with benumbing force.

The girl issues a last, sobering ring from her instrument and suddenly stills. A modest gathering of onlookers hold their breath, awaiting her dance, and she does not disappoint. The rhythm begins again, though this time, it is tempered and deliberate, matching her every graceful swirl and glide. Weightless and engrossed, she paints with dainty feet patterns on the dry Parisian square, endowing it with life, capturing the heat of the sun with her skin, and radiating light onto whoever is blessed to be within her orbit.

Claude is parched, the heat intense, and he wets his lips. He stares, transfixed, and strives to commit every detail about this enchantress and her binding spell to his apt memory.

Her engrossment becomes his. When she closes her eyes and tips her head back to expose a graceful neck, he draws a shuddering breath and leans his head against cool stone. Her arms rise into the air and twist round her torso, and his hands clutch onto stiff fabric. She begins to twirl, hair tossed in the wind, skin glistening with perspiration and full lips agape with rapture; yet he feels he is the one robbed of breath.

He pants and swallows, shutting his eyes in a moment’s askance of relief, and when he opens them, she has finished. The spell is thus broken. The priest stands still, ashamed and sweltered, as he tries to adjust to the feelings coursing through his veins. Quench the blaze. But it refuses to cease its ruination, and he has naught but to curse the girl who brought him out of his scholastic musings and into the world of sin and flesh.

There is applause. Claude begins to observe the crowd. There are some who are appreciative, and others who are scornful. Coins are tossed onto the upturned tambourine, and though he cannot hear, he deduces that lewd remarks are made. The gypsy’s visage loses its flush to become paled with mortification, and a group of men leer repugnantly at the uncomfortable girl. His blood boils with disdain at their crudeness, and jealousy that anyone other than he could behold her in a display so intimate and sensuous.

He wants to claim her, then. Withdraw her from the lustful hoard and into his cell, where her every movement, her every twitch and palpitation, will be his to see and no one else’s. The urgency of the thought is maddening. He clenches his teeth, shuts his eyes, and prays for the thoughts to go away.

All is in vain, as he well knows. His mind, no longer capable of focusing on words of science and religion, is seared by the image of her.

  
✽ ✽ ✽

  
She escapes him the few following days. The chime of her timbrel is not to be heard and her dancing form does not grace the square. He should be relieved, he thinks. Yet even in her absence, the anticipation of her emergence keeps him restless and awaiting.

This is not something he should be thinking about right now; not when he is attending his cathedral and surveying his flock, clothed in pious attire yet stripped of all piety. Could he blame her, then? For surely her spell extends beyond her materialistic presence, warps his waking moments and sleeping hours with impressions of faceless intrigue and searing heat.

And has his sanity deteriorated so badly that he can now see her in such astounding vividness? He halts his walk and stiffens. No, it is real, and she is there, standing before the Blessed Virgin, tinted in red and yellow by the light that passes through stained glass. She is scorned and derided; the churchgoers of noble breed look down upon this ragged girl and cross themselves. He hears tongues mumbling prayers and issuing curses in the same breath and he marvels. Marvels at how he disdains the dispositions that mimic his own and at how she remains humble and unyielding.

She fumbles, nonetheless; shifts awkwardly and positions her hands in unpracticed devotion. Her prayers stray from every decorum and every orthodox teaching. There are no invocations and no deliberations; yet her words are earnest and sincere.

 _Blasphemy_ , his mind screams. _Sacrilege_.

He is glued to his spot, still.

She says her last plea, stands from her kneeling position, and turns her head in childlike fascination as she inspects the great arches and pillars of the cathedral. He stands beside a column, observing and inconspicuous.

Slowly, appreciatively, she strolls, notwithstanding the glares she receives from every corner.

His attention is withdrawn from her when one of the stray cats he has rescued comes pottering into his line of vision and into the crowd. He closes his eyes and heaves a breath. He keeps them in the cathedral, their haven from cold nights and foodless days, but he is wary of having them disturb the churchgoers. The cat approaches a plump lady, who yelps and scurries. Claude is about to instruct a member of the clergy to retrieve the small animal before much commotion ensues, but surprise banishes the thought quickly.

The bohemian gestures to the cat, ushering it closer, and grins widely when it rubs its head against her skirt. For a moment—though it is fleeting and transient—Claude feels guilty about his condemnation of the girl, about denouncing her as a witch; for what witch exudes such childish delight at the mere sight of a cat?

She adorns the cat with caresses and coos, eyes glistening. A smile transpires upon his solemn visage. It is wistful and forlorn, appearing to have arisen without his consent. At that moment, she looks up and their eyes meet. His heart convulses and the smile is erased. Back straightened and shoulders squared, he looks at her with the same imperious, derisive intensity she had grown to dread. But the effect is lost this time. She only meets his gaze with unabashed curiosity, and he feels stripped and bare.

Breaking the contact, he gestures to a member of his clergy.

“Your Excellency?” says the clerk.

“See to it that the gypsy leaves this instant.”

A grave nod and silent gesticulations, and the girl is walking out of the cathedral. He follows her steps with his eyes and wishes to quieten his traitorous heart.

  
✽ ✽ ✽

 

He has not known a moment’s serenity for long days, now. His head is stricken with conflicting thoughts that battle for dominance, and he fears them all. The girl still appears in his dreams; her presence at times sweet and soothing, and at others, taunting and beguiling.

The night is long and his steps are labored. Beneath his cloak, his posture is slumped; and under his cowl, his visage is desolate.

The walk was meant to clear his thoughts, but to a person who has naught but to think, it only serves to strengthen their toll on him. He calls into question the girl and her shameless demeanor; examines his conscience and implores to have it mollified by shifting the blame away from him and onto her; wonders if it is her spell that had him fall from God’s grace, or if it was something that he had done… If she possesses the strength with which he accredits her, or if he is simply weak.

His steps become slower until they stop entirely. Weighed down by all the implications; by his disloyal conscience; by his station and forceful obligations, he descends in a sitting position. The stoned sidewalk is withered, and the street itself reeks of putrefaction and rancidness, but he pays that no mind. He is unknown here—this cloaked phantom who seeks solace from the crisp cold night—and he lets out a shuddering, watery breath.

He feels a presence standing before him, above him, and he looks up when a handkerchief is offered to him, stunned and disbelieving. But he discerns her from beneath his cowl, her lovely face claimed by sympathy. He panics, if only in his head, and ponders what to do; for what a compromising position it is for the archdeacon to be sat submissively at the feet of a gypsy girl.

 _Not simply any gypsy girl_ , his mind supplies. Esmeralda. Her name, so exotic and mysterious, sends a shiver down his spine.

But it must be that she does not recognize him all the same. Her disposition would not be as kindly if she did. He takes her offering, if only not to entice an argument, and looks down, waiting for her to leave. But she remains, seeming to wait for something from him as well.

Her presence shifts and she sits beside him, not noticing his building discomfort. He could feel her inquisitive eyes scouring his concealed visage, and he keeps facing forward.

“It is an odd place to be for a priest,” she muses. He makes a move to stand, but she takes hold of his sleeve. “But you mustn’t leave! I shall, if my presence brings you unease.”

He makes no attempt to confirm or contradict her statement, and she takes it as an allowance to stay. “I suppose it’s odd for me to be here, as well,” she says, voice melancholy and distant, and wraps her arms around her knees. “But I couldn’t bear to stay there. One of our own is dying, you see. A small child, and there is nothing to be done. Nothing we could afford, at least. Is it cowardly of me to have run away?” she turns to look at him, but he does not move at all.

Slumping further, she continues, “It is cowardly. I just… I cannot help but to blame myself.” Here, he does turn an inquisitive head in her direction. “If I worked a bit harder; if I hadn’t spent my last money on something I could have well gone without; if I had… oh, all the thing I could have done! All the things I wish I hadn’t!”

Claude hears all of this silently and finds despondence and regret gnawing at his own heart. He hears her sniffle and catches her wiping her eyes from the periphery of his vision, and he grips the pavement below until his knuckles turn white.

“Why do I burden you with this?” she says, letting out a watery laugh. “You seem to have your own sorrows to deal with.”

They are both quiet for a while, but soon enough, she breaks the silence.

“Do you see that star?” she points at the expansive night sky, and it is impossible to discern what her finger intends. “I have been observing it for a while now, and it seems to be the only one that doesn’t move.”

 _Polaris, then_ , he notes.

“Is it silly that it gives me hope?” she says sadly. “The sky is at times ablaze and chaotic, but at least one thing remains true…”

Claude ponders her words, looking at her from the corner of his eye. She is different when the sun has set. While others seek to hide in the dark, it is the blazing sun that conceals her. But now, on this cold and dismal night, he can see how forlorn she is. Her nomadic lifestyle displaces her time and time again, but he never imagined that she might yearn for anything else; so wild and free she has always seemed.

The causes for desolation vary, but for the first time since he had set eyes on her, he has not in his heart a hostile feeling towards her.

Suddenly, she stands and brushes her skirt.

“I have beset you, I know… I’m sorry.” She gives a strained smile, still afflicted by tears. “This place can be dangerous at night, monsieur l’archidiacre. It… is the archdeacon, is it not? Don’t stay here too long, monsieur.”

She leaves on swift feet, disappearing quickly into a darkened alleyway.

Claude stares at where she stood mere moments ago, too stunned to move.

He is frozen at her departure, and, dismayed, he realizes he misses the heat.

  
✽ ✽ ✽

  
The next morning, the square witnesses a return in activity and animation. It is of a different tone, however; the gathering crowd seems vehement rather than entranced, and the bohemian’s timbrel clangs in a series of dissonant tunes. Intrigued, Claude exits the cathedral and makes towards the commotion.

Esmeralda, whose both arms are held by iron grips, struggles against two soldiers; and those in attendance who once sent her words of admiration have quickly replaced them with promises of scorn and ill-will.

“I have done nothing wrong, messieurs! Release me!” she says, failing to yank away an arm.

“Nothing wrong, she says!” exclaims one of the soldiers, laughing. “Have you not read the new decree, gypsy? Dancing is against the law!”

The other one snickers at the remark and shakes his head. “You fool, Antoine. She does not read! Have you ever seen a gypsy that reads?”

Face flushed with humiliation, she opens her mouth to make a retort, but a voice cuts through the silence before she can.

“What then is this?” says the archdeacon, imposing and forbidding.

Upon seeing the new arrival, the two men straighten their stance and cease their quips. And if the girl allowed herself the most fleeting impression of hope, it is quickly dashed by the memory of the many threats made by the intervening man. She looks down, frowning.

“Monsieur l’archidiacre,” says the taller one of the two. “We caught her dancing in the square, plainly disregarding the law ordained by His Majesty the King.”

The other one continues, “She entrances the good public, too, monsieur. Steals away their coin.”

“Lies!” she says, yanking again and whimpering when the grip becomes bruising.

Claude is pensive for a few moments, yet the nature of his thoughts remains obscure to everyone present. At length, he says, “And what is her sentence?”

Though barren of hope, incredulity still finds its way to Esmeralda’s visage and she gapes at him.

“Three days of imprisonment and twenty public lashings.”

She whimpers and her knees buckle, but is harshly made to straighten her stance by a pull on her bruised arm. She dares to cast a glance onto the priest, doleful and uncertain though it may be, and finds that his own dark, grave eyes are solely fixed on her.

Gaze unrelenting and voice steady, he says, “Guards,” here, he looks at the two in question, “release her.”

The crowd is made silent; stupefied, and the soldiers stare dumbly at the archdeacon of Josas. “Your pardon, monsieur?” says one of them.

He raises a condescending brow and says simply, “I said, release her.”

Esmeralda dares to suck in a large breath through her fluttering chest and she stares at her unlikely savior, stupefied like all the rest.

“No disrespect is meant, monsieur l’archidiacre,” says a soldier, issuing a scroll from beneath his armor and availing it for Claude to read, “but the decree comes directly from the king, and we are bound by our pledge to instigate his every word. The girl here is a felon, monsieur; unworthy of Notre-Dame’s protection.”

“A witch!” exclaims a woman in the crowd.

“She beguiled and seduced my husband! A loose harlot she may be, but she is a temptress, still!” exclaims another.

“She stole my money with her gypsy trickery!” and the angry accusations flow on, seemingly from every direction, and the girl swishes her head back and forth, desperate and aghast, with words of denial hanging at the base of her throat.

“Silence!” demands the archdeacon. “Shameless horde! I have observed you; languishing in sinful troughs yet amused in your degeneracy. If the girl is to bear her share of blame, then you shall bear your own! And you,” he turns to the soldiers. “You are well aware that the girl does not read. A crime is called thus only if the culprit is fully knowledgable of its nature and has the intention to go forth regardless.”

“Not by the law of the jury,” says the soldier, vexation beginning to show.

“I speak of the law of God,” returns the archdeacon, his words harsh and challenging. “The law of man is finite beyond this world—or do you not consider what is to become of your soul once your body has withered and decayed? Release the girl this time, and she is yours to apprehend should she dare to dance again.”

There is, then, a silent exchange between the three men; one that is communicated by the steel of eyes and the fervor of will. The soldiers relent at last, loosening their hold on the girl until she is standing on wobbling legs, numb and silent.

The crowd begins to dissipate and the soldiers leave. Esmeralda stares at Claude with wide eyes, but it seems that, having defended her character and merit, he cannot bear to look at her anymore. Without a word, he strides back into the cathedral, leaving her confused and questioning.

  
✽ ✽ ✽

  
One day, upon returning to his cell after a sermon, Claude is surprised to find the door ajar, permitting sunlight into the bleak corridor in a single stream. Perturbed and frowning, he pushes against it. A tremor shoots through his body and he freezes, calling his sanity into question as he stares at the graceful form of Esmeralda, standing in the middle of his cell and looking at his paraphernalia with equal confusion and interest.

“What are you doing here?” the question, spoken in a haze, retrieves the girl from her reverie and she whips her head in his direction. Recovering in earnest, he strides towards her. “Who let you in?” he demands.

“I—” she stumbles on her words and picks herself up, looking into his steely eyes. “There was a man—he was speaking to himself, something about money and having a wealthy archdeacon for a brother. I followed him, for I couldn’t find you otherwise. The door was unlocked and you were not there; he left and I stayed.”

Claude closes his eyes and sighs heavily, cursing his brother in his mind. “And what business have you with me?”

“… I wished to thank you.” Her words, spoken so softly yet so unsurely, cause him to open his eyes and regard her anew. “If you had not stepped in when you did, I would be in the pillory right now, lashed until my blood was no longer my own.”

The image is horrid in his mind and he twists his face. “Speak not of this,” he says curtly. “I forbid you.”

“Thank you, still,” she says.

He looks at her; at her glistening eyes, hopeful against all reason; at her skin, soft and unsoiled; at her mouth, sweet and sinfully inviting… then he tears his eyes away as if scorched. “Is that all?”

If she is dismayed by his bluntness, she does not let it show. “Why did you do it?” comes the abrupt question. “Why did you help me?”

But he cannot tell her. How could he tell her that the very thought of her in pain makes him shudder as though poison runs through his veins? He brings forth an image of her in the pillory, agonized and screaming, and determines that he would simply not bear it.

“I did what every man of God would do.” He refrains from looking at her, still. “Nothing more, and nothing less.”

“But do you not think me worthy of torture?” she presses, abandoning decorum and the safe shores of propriety. “You seek me for months, threatening me and spurning me, yet when the chance comes for your threats to be realized, you refute them!”

He locks his jaw and moves so that he towers over her. “Have I ever said a word about torture? Do you think my words void? Make not a mistake, I think you a temptress and a sorceress all the same! You make Hell your eternal abode by refusing to repent! But it is God who shall deliver His judgement upon you, and not a sinful, lustful mortal!”

There is a glimmer of something other than vehemence in his fiery eyes and he suddenly retreats, leaving the shivering, frightened girl in her spot as he staggers towards the window, raking a shaky hand through his hair.

Then, coldly and distantly, he says, “Leave. Leave and never come back.”

Esmeralda stares at him for a few, long moments, her hands still clasped against her heart. When his words finally register, she makes a faltering step backwards before departing quickly.  
  
He hears the door click and does not blink, unshed moisture suspended in empty eyes. His thumb toys with the crucifix at the end of his rosary. With the increasing fervor of his thoughts, he strengthens his hold on the metallic object, until at last his skin is pricked and blood trickles down and onto the floor.

At length, something catches his attention. He looks to the right, onto the stoned windowsill, and sees white, yellow, and purple flowers held in a clay pot, so innocent and pure in their new, grim abode.

He traces a soft petal with his thumb, tainting its white purity with red, and he plucks it.


End file.
